


To the Victress, the Spoils

by misura



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Jaime watches Brienne during a tournament.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 27
Kudos: 134





	To the Victress, the Spoils

Up until the moment Brienne actually fights, Jaime's able to tell himself that he's only here to be polite, to show everyone else that he's still alive and not ashamed of anything he's done, thank you very much.

Then she's there, looking as much like a knight as any man who's taken the field so far, and Jaime has to admit to himself that he wouldn't have missed this for the world. She's _good_ , almost as good as he was, at his best (or maybe a little bit better) and with every hit she scores, Jaime wants to jump up and cheer.

He doesn't, of course, not being a half-grown boy anymore.

"I'd wager with you, but I'm afraid you'd take my head off if I bet against your Brienne," Tyrion says.

"She's not 'my' Brienne," Jaime says. "And anyway, you're not a fool, and only a fool would bet against her."

Tyrion grins. "But, dear brother, didn't you know? The world is full of fools, all eager to be parted from their money. It's our gods-given duty to oblige them."

"What do you even need more money for?" Jaime asks, only half his mind on the conversation. (It would be less, but Tyrion has a nasty habit of catching one off guard.)

"Money is like beautiful women or wine. There's no such thing as 'enough'," Tyrion says.

Brienne wins her bout; Jaime turns to give Tyrion a long look.

"I'll grant you there are exceptions to the rule," Tyrion says.

Brienne ends up sweeping the tournament, of course. Jaime would, could, has expected no less, and yet during every bout, there comes a moment when he finds himself holding his breath, willing her to see this opening, to not fall for that feint. It's almost as if he's right down there, as if he's the one fighting instead of her.

He's not. He'd like to think he can read her movements better than her opponents can, but once or twice, she surprises even him.

The prizes are modest, in keeping with this new era of economy, of rebuilding after the wars.

Brienne still looks proud, to receive a lovely golden cup and then, after some whispered deliberations, a single red rose. It's tradition, to allow a knight to honor his lady, but Jaime imagines none of the heralds ever imagined the knight might be a lady herself.

(Jaime remembers bestowing a few roses himself - on Cersei, naturally, with Robert sitting right next to her, drunk and beaming and pig-ignorant of that rose representing anything other than a brother's brotherly dedication to his sister.)

"Two to one she'll present it to Sansa," Tyrion whispers, as Brienne starts her victory lap, sitting on her horse as if she was born there.

"Two?" Sansa would be the logical choice. She's due to leave for Winterfell soon, and Jaime supposes it would make for a nice goodbye present, of a sort. No one's going to be thinking anything of it; Brienne's dedication and loyalty to the Stark women is well known.

Jaime's a big boy, all grown up. Brienne doing the politically convenient and safe thing isn't going to hurt his feelings. He doesn't even _want_ the bloody rose, honest. He's not a lady, after all. Now, if their positions were reversed, sure, he wouldn't hesitate for a moment, but -

"Ah. Too late. Lucky for me," Tyrion says. He sounds amused and utterly unsurprised.

There's a red rose lying in Jaime's lap, looking as if the gods themselves delivered it there.

Jaime realizes Brienne is looking at him. Scowling, actually. He's not quite sure how the expression makes her face even more attractive than usual.

"You might want to say something," Tyrion stage-whispers. "Some brief thanks, perhaps. A proposal of marriage, possibly. You'd have lots of witnesses if she accepts, and she's too well-bred to kill you in public if she takes it the wrong way, so you'd be perfectly safe whichever way the chips fall."

"Shut up," Jaime whispers back. Brienne's scowl deepens. The crowd murmurs, still subdued for the moment, still ready to resume cheering if Jaime manages not to screw this up - or to start booing if he does.

Brienne's lips press together until they're white.

Jaime rises to his feet. It feels like the right, proper way to start. "Ser Brienne." He tries to think of something more to say. 'I love you' would be true, but a bit sentimental and superfluous besides. 'You honor me' likewise. 'Please marry me' feels too manipulative; if he's going to ask, he'll ask in private.

"Ser Jaime," Brienne says, and nudges her horse to keep walking.

It's a bit of an anti-climax, really, but the crowd gives a couple of half-hearted cheers anyway.

"I'm sorry." One of Tyrion's words of wisdom: it's always a good idea to apologize to a woman.

Brienne, naturally, frowns at him while her squire helps her strip off the last of her armor. "For what?"

"I - " Jaime considers. His list of failings is long enough that this one doesn't quite seem to signify. Still. "I could have been a bit more eloquent back there."

Brienne snorts. "What, and made a speech to embarrass both of us?"

"It could have been a very good speech," Jaime says. "You know, romantic. Heart-felt. That sort of thing."

"Well, yes. I suppose. Have you made a lot of those?" Brienne asks. "Romantic, heart-felt speeches?"

Tyrion would undoubtedly have some excellent advice regarding this situation. Jaime feels like he might as well muddy along. Why quit now, after all? "Not really. Never, actually."

Brienne nods slowly. "You probably made the right call, then."

"First time for everything, I suppose," Jaime says.

Brienne scowls. "Why are you here, Ser Jaime?"

"You took a few nasty hits. I wanted to make sure you were all right," Jaime says. "And to thank you, I suppose. No one's ever given me a rose before."

"Last tournament I won, I asked Renly to grant me a place in his Kingsguard," Brienne says. "That was just before Stannis murdered him."

"Not the best omen." Jaime vaguely recalls something about Brienne having been accused of the murder. He was a bit busy with other things, and he'd never met her at the time, and so the whole thing mostly passed him by.

"So did you come here to complain?" Brienne asks. "If so, consider your complaint received."

"I - " Jaime thinks this would be a very bad moment to propose marriage. "No. Of course not. I'm flattered. Honored, even. Deliriously happy, perhaps. Brienne, I - "

She's the one to kiss him, as it should be, Jaime supposes with the part of his brains that still works.

Brienne's squire enters, spots the two of them, and exits in a hurry. Jaime hopes the lad has some discretion and enough loyalty for the story not to be all over King's Landing within the hour.

Just when Jaime feels like he might need to choose between breaking the kiss and suffocating, Brienne steps back. Her face is flushed. Jaime, irrationally, wants to resume kissing her right away, and breathing be damned. He can do without breathing for a while.

"Do you want to - " Brienne asks, not finishing her sentence as her face gets a little redder.

Jaime considers pointing out that, as the lady, blushing is definitely _his_ prerogative, but he's not actually a complete idiot. Instead, he asks, "Here? _Now_?" in a tone of voice he hopes conveys both his desperate desire for Brienne to say 'yes' and his complete and utter acknowledgment of her right to say 'no' without it meaning anything other than that she has no desire to have sex with him in a place like this.

Brienne bites her lip. "If you'd rather wait - of course we can - "

"No," Jaime says quickly. "No. Anything you want. Your choice."

"Really," Brienne says. " _Anything_?"

"I dare say you're the envy of half the men in King's Landing tonight," Tyrion says.

Jaime suspects, though he's not sure, that someone's spotted him wandering around in a bit of a daze and went and got Tyrion to deal with him, but he hasn't asked and Tyrion hasn't volunteered the information. It's one of the ways in which their relationship works, more or less.

"The other half - well, they're probably the type that beat their wives," Tyrion goes on. "So I wouldn't worry too much about their opinion."

Jaime scrapes together a few working brain cells. "So which half do you belong to?"

"Have you asked her to marry you yet?" Tyrion asks, ignoring the question. "I do hate to be the nagging, responsible adult in this family, as it's really not a role I'm at all suited to, I fear, but someone has to, and clearly you're in no fit state to do it."

"I believe she'll be the one asking me," Jaime says. "Rather than the other way around."

Tyrion's expression implies he's too polite to express his doubt of this claim. "When?"

Jaime shrugs. "When she wants to, I expect. Can we change the subject now?"

Tyrion shakes his head. "Dear brother. To answer your earlier question, I belong to neither half. I will say this, though: I'm happy for you. If she ends up breaking your heart, I'm very much afraid I won't be able to avenge you, on account of not wanting to die, but as long as she makes you happy, I wish the two of you all the best."

"Thank you."

"That might have made for a nice speech this afternoon, you know. Short but sweet."


End file.
